Voodoo Pie

In the heart of a quiet Louisiana town, Celeste bakes her pies with careful hands and an ageless knowing. She takes orders with a smile, never forgetting a name, a face, or a sin. For some, her pies are simply a delight--golden crusts cradling sweet, spiced fruit. But for others, they hold something deeper, something whispered through the cypress trees and carried by the thick bayou air.

This Valentine’s Day, a woman comes to Celeste, her voice shaking, her heart heavy. Her husband’s been running around, she confesses, chasing something younger, something fleeting. Celeste listens, her dark eyes steady, her hands already at work. "A cherry pie, cher?" she asks softly. The woman nods, wiping her eyes.

That night, the husband eats his slice, licking the sticky red from his fingers before turning in. The scent of cherries lingers in the room, thick as fog. Sleep comes quickly. And then—

A dream, but not a dream. He’s running through the bayou, breath ragged, feet sinking into the mud. Behind him, a shadow moves, gliding just beyond sight. Laughter slithers through the trees, a voice calling his name, saccharine and sinister. He turns, and there she is--his mistress, her lips red as the pie, her eyes gleaming black.

"Cher, you came back to me," she coos, reaching for him with fingers too long, too sharp. He stumbles away, but the cypress trees close in. The swamp pulls at him, vines twisting around his wrists like loving hands. He screams, but the sound is swallowed whole.

He wakes, drenched in sweat, gasping. The scent of cherries still clings to the air. Heart hammering, he turns to his wife, eyes wide with something raw, something broken. "I’m sorry," he chokes out, voice thick with tears. "I’m so sorry."

Across town, Celeste wipes down her counter, humming a soft tune. The pie dish sits empty. Another order complete. Another lesson learned--one slice at a time.

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